


ma mère, ma chère

by MayorMimi



Category: Gankutsuou: The Count of Monte Cristo
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Bad Parenting, Childhood Friends, Comedy, Fluff and Crack, Gen, Hark! A Vagrant reference, Hilarity Ensues, M/M, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, Mother Hen Franz, One Shot, One-Sided Attraction, Out of Character, Reminiscing, Unrequited Love, for the sake of crack, slightly though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:49:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26694796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayorMimi/pseuds/MayorMimi
Summary: Albert’s final parents-teacher conference for his sophomore year is on the horizon, yet all three of his parents have their hands full. Thankfully, one of them’s open to making changes on a moment’s notice.
Relationships: Albert de Morcerf & Valentine de Villefort, Franz d'Épinay & Albert de Morcerf, Franz d'Épinay & Valentine de Villefort
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	ma mère, ma chère

**Author's Note:**

> It’s my birthday today, so I treated myself to a quick, self indulgent fic full of inside jokes.

As the sun shrunk away, the sky around it dissolving from creamy blue to rosy lilac, Mércèdes folded her sunglasses onto the table and continued reading the paperback rolled up in her hand, the other stirring the remains of her cherry mimosa with her straw. Absolute silence like the one she had been relishing by the pool was as scarce as gold dust, so she savored the moment—

“Mama-a-a!”

—while it lasted.

She discarded her book and donned her sunglasses again, folding her hands onto her stomach and laying stock-still. Mércèdes ignored her son’s approaching footsteps along with the back of her eyelids darkening as his form overhead blocked the sun. “Oh, good. You’re awake.”

Seeing as even Fernando was clueless whenever she feigned sleep, Mércèdes couldn’t help but wonder if her son was psychic, before settling with the reality that he was just odd. “Unfortunately.”

“Well, today I—” She removed her sunglasses and gestured for him to fetch her chiffon robe from two lounge chairs over, cutting off her son who hurried to snatch up the lace fabric and return it to his mother. Mércèdes rose from her seat, tied it at her waist then gathered her purse, not pausing before sweeping back into their house and leaving Albert to have a double-take before following suit.

The corridors inside had been pitch dark come sundown, drenched in peacock-blue shadows, though the hour wasn’t close enough to evening to punctuate the violet darkness with lamps. “I got a letter this morning.”

“This morning—good to hear you’ve been waking up before noon,” she remarked absently.

“Oh, I mean this afternoon. Right after I woke up, sorry.”

“You could at least make an effort.” Mércèdes murmured this so half-heartedly, it hardly sounded like a reproof at all.

“I know, I—hold on!” His eyes flickered. “Never mind, I have to tell you about the letter.”

“But weren’t you out at your polo lessons this afternoon?” She interjected and, despite her question, doubled her stride before he could answer.

“Yeah, after I found the letter, which said—”

“Good to hear,” she spoke in a monotone. “So, did you have a nice day, dear?”

“Oh, I suppose. Thank you for asking…No, wait.” Albert shook his head. “I’m the one with something to ask.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Just a minute, Mammina.” Anyone who’s spent at least a day with Albert would know it was never a good sign when his French dissolved into Italian. If anything, it only indicated the boy was growing excitable.

“I don’t have a minute…” she paused, as if in an effort to recall something. “...Albert.”

“Oh, but—but, mammina—” From her large frame purse, Mércèdes produced a book, dangling it before Albert’s face. “That’s—” Her son seemed to lose his breath. “That’s Robinson Crusoe!” He made a quickattempt at swiping it, but her pumps supported her in lifting the novel past an arm’s length away from the boy. “Oh, please, can I—?”

Mércèdes flung the book across the corridor, sending her son after it as she swept into her boudoir and locked the doors.

Fernando had to read the letter on the doorstep a second or third time before finally crumpling the foul thing in his hands and tossing it aside. Leaving his seat at the PTA meeting empty for the fifth time that year would paint an unflattering image of him as a father, and though the man would begrudgingly admit he missed the previous four on account of forgetfulness, he couldn’t help being hard-pressed for that evening. What’s more, the man could hardly believe Albert had already opened the letter, evident by the broken wax seal, and didn’t think to tell him immediately. Fernando had half a mind to tell his son off for forcing him to make a decision on the spot before, overhead, he spotted the silhouette of his wife behind a row of balusters, strutting into the second floor sitting room in a gilded dress that glistened even while veiled by shadows. He set to work storming up the grand staircase, but despite his loud, approaching footsteps echoing through the corridors overhead, the door leading into the room closed.

The man felt his throat dry at this, eyes twitching as he wondered where that good-for-nothing child—on the other hand—was up to on at a time like this. Fernando burst into their sitting room. “Mercédès, where’s our son?!”

“Our what?” Fernando found his wife perched on the chaise lounge with her back to him and spotted his own reflection in her compact mirror as she reapplied her dark lip stain. Of Mércèdes herself, Fernando saw little beyond the upper half of her lithe form in a backless dress, and a diamond choker implying she wouldn’t be available for the evening, either.

Fernando’s hands curled into fists as he marched around the velvet seat. “Our boy!” While Mércèdes moved onto powdering her face, a second figure resting beneath her came into view.

Albert had been on his stomach, only able to lift his chin to read a novel while the rest of him sank into the lounge due to the weight of his mother on his back. Clicking her compact mirror shut with one hand, Mércèdes demanded, “What boy?”

“Never mind that; where do you suppose you’re going?”

“Suppose, nothing.” She crossed her legs, balancing her metallic purse on her knee. The position quickly looked more and more uncomfortable for Albert. “I’ll be at Gauthier’s soirée and seeing you come daybreak.”

“Despite the PTA meeting on the horizon?”

“He said nothing of the sort.” It wasn’t initially clear to Fernando to whom she was referring before Mércèdes swept down to adjust the ankle-straps of her velvet heels and met Albert’s eyes. “There you are. You said nothing about a PTA meeting.”

“Actually, I—”

“Oh, well.” She rose from her seat—or Albert, for that matter—and tucked her feathery powder puff into her minaudière. “It can’t be helped, now.” Albert didn’t shift from his position, at first, until it grew clear to him his mother was leaving the room with his father following suit, so the boy peeled himself gradually off the chaise lounge while rubbing the small of his back. He rolled off and neglected his novel in the room, before stumbling after the pair.

“You can’t pass by his school on your way to the Gauthier residence?” Fernando’s question only reached Albert after it rang several times up the spiraling stairs. The boy had to bound down two steps at a time to catch up.

“And risk turning up late? Heavens, no.” Her airy voice had nearly been drowned out by the clicks of her heels. in the foyer “You’re not any better.”

“He’s your son.” Even as they had their disputes, Fernando opened both doors for Mércèdes.

The woman turned to retort: “Just as much as he’s yours.” And she might’ve sashayed off had something not gently pulled her back.

Hanging halfway out the doors, Mércèdes knew her son wouldn’t release his hold of her white fur wrap without a goodbye, so she caught his jaw in her hands and planted a quick kiss on his cheek—met with a boyish smile and fluttering lashes. “Ciao, mammina,” he murmured. She acknowledged this with an absent hum before shutting the door in Albert’s face, effectively returning his attention to his father. “...Ah, what’s up?”

Upon catching sight of the dark lipstick stain on Albert’s cheekbone, Fernando caught a bout laughter before it escaped him, clearing his throat. The hard line of his mouth trembled a bit again when Albert cocked his head, before he finally managed: “You could’ve told me about this hours ago.” The man prodded the crumpled paper on the ground with his polished shoe.

Albert looked back up at him. “Is that what all the fuss was about?”

“Fuss?”

“You’ve never attended those meetings.”

“Well, your mother would cover for me, at least.” And save his pride. “But tonight, neither of us are available.”

“Mother never did, either. I ask her every other month in case she ever wants to attend but—huh,” he went on, ignoring his father, “that's funny. She’s had a party to turn up at on all those past nights. What are the odds?”

“Wait, so—” Fernando pinched his temple— “I’m not certain I understand. _No one’s_ been attending those meetings?”

“Oh, no. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then?”

“Franz covered for you two every year since middle school.”

In a room full of graying fathers in sharp suits and dark ties, Franz stuck out like a sore thumb to anyone who wasn’t a teacher prepared to see him attend the year’s fifth PTA conference. He took a seat before their homeroom teacher, stiffly rising in his place several inches,though the elder across from him didn’t look up from his papers. “Depinay, again?” He couldn’t determine whether the old man was more or less intimidating up close as opposed to standing before rows of desks while Franz and Albert squirreled away in the back—exchanging notes and wry whispers.

“Personally sent by his parents,” he lied, “again.”

“You say that, but where are the boy’s parents? What’s their excuse this time?”

The question was met by an over-the-top clearing of the throat as a thinly veiled delay while Franz was inventing an answer. “Not an excuse, sir. They can’t help being in Morocco. Casablanca,” he added as a way of turning the lie into a casual aside.

“And the boy?”

“He’s—er—with them,” responded Franz in an effort to draw up an image of a loving, close-knit family. At this, he felt a few dozen pairs of eyes in the room turn towards him before wondering if anyone was about to raise an objection.

Concluding they were only looks of curiosity, he pressed on with more self-assurance: “Again, I’ll commit all your remarks to paper word for word, so I wouldn’t worry if I were you.” The stares lingered, before the heads returned to their conversations—one at a time.

When the meeting ended and Franz stood by the school gates awaiting his chauffeur, his heart sank at the sight of headlights belonging to a familiar car that had just pulled up. He stood on his tiptoes in an effort to see above the crowd of parents, not realizing how many couples he’d been in a room with until they all distributed themselves outside. He watched a shadow drop out of the passenger’s seat door and slam it with a deafening ‘bang’, before the silhouette’s head seemed to turn to him. “Hey, Franz!” Albert cried out, waving an arm overhead. “Franz, over here!”

Franz’s face turned a shade of pink so bright, it nearly pierced the darkness as the surrounding adults turned to him and his usual tactic of pretending not to know Albert was an option his friend was quick to eliminate, perhaps purposefully. Franz hurried towards the car that quickly became a subject of sidelong looks, hissing once Albert’s yells died out: “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

“Picking you up.”

“That’s certainly what it looks like.” He tossed a glance over his shoulder. “Anyway, you can’t be here.”

“Because?”

“I’ve already got a ride, okay? Now, be a good boy, and—”

“And feel like I came all the way here for nothing? I don’t think so.” Albert tugged on Franz’s sleeve as the boy in question tried to brush him off, fixing him in an awkward position where the most graceful escape would be to climb in with Albert. Franz did just that, though not without a dirty look shot at his friend, before producing his phone to let his chauffeur know he wouldn’t need the lift. He took the seat opposite to Albert’s, knowing his friend got motion sick riding backwards.

“Albert,” Franz went on the moment his conversation on the phone ended, “I was about to pick up Valentine. Her parents asked me to take her to dinner.”

“Then we can stop by on the way.” Albert’s eyes flickered as Franz redirected his phone’s light towards his face, his other hand yanking out a handkerchief hidden between the layers of his cravat. “Nice to see you found use for that frilly thing,” he sneered while Franz wiped the lipstick off his cheekbone.

“Har-har. I don’t think you understand the point of a dinner with one’s fiancée.”

“I get it, I just don’t see the appeal of rushing—” he gestured vaguely— “ _it_.”

“You’re one to talk.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Franz caught Albert’s brow quiver as he adopted a defensive tone. “Was I ever weird about that sort of thing?”

“Don’t you remember how you’d respond when the older kids said you’d never make it to adulthood? ‘When I grow up, I’ll just marry Franz,’” Franz mocked in a comically high, boyish voice. “They’d say there was no way you’d last without someone to lean on and, boy, did you think up solutions fast. ‘We’ll live in a ranch bungalow with thirty seven conures, and have picnics every Tuesday.’”

“I…said that?” Albert’s face grayed as if he’d been slapped. “So boldly, too.”

“Hey, you were quite the sheltered kid.”

“You can say that again,” he sighed. “How did you react to my bright idea?”

“Beats me.” Franz recalled a tricky phase he went through around that time he spent petulantly distancing himself from Albert, rejecting innocent gestures of affection and refusing to be seen around him, so he could imagine the look of horror on his own crimsoned face at Albert’s proposition. All that could get him to come around again was the discovery of how much this behavior hurt Albert—which filled him with a secret sense of satisfaction—and the realization no one really paid attention. “Despite that, the girls in our class used to burst into tears at your declaration, s guess you were pretty popular.” He rested his chin in his hand, insouciantly watching the scene outside blur past them.

Albert’s eyes flickered at this. “Franz,” he gradually began, “the girls liked you.”

Franz’s eyes were still aimed at the window, though they focused on nothing in particular, and it initially didn’t seem like he was about to respond. “...Did they?” He yawned.

“All those poetry-packed fan letters in your desk on La Saint-Valentin and you were just too thick-headed to notice,” he chuckled, flicking a finger against his friend’s forehead.

“ _I’m_ thick-headed?” Franz nearly lifted a hand to rub the spot before withdrawing it, refusing to acknowledge Albert’s taunt. “Look, I just supposed the majority of the girls in our grade liked you. I thought they would.”

“Why? What was it about a little crybaby like me that screamed ‘crowd-puller’?” Albert lifted his chin, looking down at his friend while challenging his line of logic—eager to prove Franz was a little more air-headed than the majority would expect of the friend group’s designated brain.

Franz’s free hand grew restless across his lap as the heels of his polished shoes tapped. “Not crowd-puller, per se, but…”

“Wait, to begin with, who liked me?” As his self-deprecating, cynical sense of humor resurfaced, Albert caught another wave of laughter bubbling up his throat in an attempt to maintain his superior grin—still amused by his friend’s daftness. “Talk about dense. You wouldn’t realize someone was head-over-heels for you if you were sitting face-to-face with them right now.”

“I…” Franz crossed his legs, his expression falling flat as his elbow dug into the headrest behind him. When met with Albert’s expectant gaze, daring him to produce a response, his eyes darkened. “Forget it. You’re right.”

“That’s what I thought…D’oh—” Albert extracted his phone that had been vibrating in his breast pocket, before bringing it to his ear. “What’s up, mama?” After moments of silence, he shifted the phone away to ask Franz: “Have we ever been to Morocco?”

“Huh?”

“The hostess is asking about our ‘recent’ trip to Casablanca. I didn’t even know the place existed out of Bogart’s—”

“Why’re you asking me?”

“You’re the one lugging around that database on things I’ve forgotten.”

“Fine, tell her you have.”

Albert immediately returned the phone to his ear, cleared his throat, and said without a second thought: “Of course we have! That’s where we got the rug for my old toy room. Don’t you recall?”

“The trip was recent, Albert.”

“Oh, right. That’s where we got your favorite wool djellaba, with the stripes. Don’t you remember?” Franz took Albert’s silence as an opportunity to turn around and ask the driver to pass by Valentine’s house. “You do?”

“She does?”

“That’s great. Alright, bye. Love you…I said I—” His voice fell, before he considered his phone in his hand. “Y’know, Franz, at least you never hang up on me.”

“Wish I got paid not to.” He nudged Albert’s knee with his own when he saw Fernando’s name appear on his phone. “Your old man’s got something to say, too.”

“Papa never calls. I wonder what this is about.”

“I don’t,” murmured Franz as Albert picked up.

Albert’s keen look vanished to reveal an indifferent air behind it. “Oh. Yes, yes, we’ve been to Casablanca. What do you mean your co-worker doesn’t believe you?”

“Damn, word spreads fast.”

“And why wouldn’t we be back in Paris?”

“Tell him you got back this morning.”

“That’s right, tell the man we got back this morning. And what a time we had! ...‘Ridiculous,’ my foot, even mother agrees with me—”Albert yanked his phone from his ear and glared at it, before gently chucking it aside and sinking further into his seat.

“He also—?”

“Mmhm.” Albert lurched forward slightly as the car stopped before the Villefort mansion. It took only a couple of silent minutes before Valentine’s narrow silhouette appeared right outside, and Albert considerately swung the door open for her—nearly hitting the girl—then courteously offered his hand to help her in.

Trembling, Valentine ducked in, still somewhat shaken by her earlier near-impact with the door, before the presence of two young men rather than one redirected her attention. “Oh, good evening, Albert—nice to see you back.” She absently shook the hand she was holding. “And, uh, Franz as well.” Valentine greeted the latter, who had been mystified by her remark about Albert, with a smile.

The pair nodded in chorus as she shut the door behind her and Albert shifted to make room for the girl, then leaned forward to inform the driver he’d be dropping his companions off at L’Espérance. 

“Not L’Espérance,” interjected Franz, sounding stunned at the suggestion.

Albert shook his head. “No? It’s not bad; that’s where you always take me.”

“We made a reservation at Aux Lyonnais,” explained Valentine, “but, wow. L’Espérance? That really isn’t half bad.”

“Yeah, he refuses to invite any of our other friends there—but you’d think he’d make an exception for his fiancée.” Albert folded his arms behind his head, eyes rolling. “It’s always ‘just you, Albert’ this and ‘keep it between us, Albert’ that. Ow!” He withdrew his leg, rubbing his shin where Franz had kicked while Valentine concealed her laughter behind the crook of her elbow, disguising it as a sneeze.

She cleared her throat and smoothed out her skirt before addressing Albert again, finding conversations easier to encourage with him. “So,” began Valentine, “how was Morocco?”

“Does everyone know about that?” Franz groaned under his breath, a crease appearing between his brows.

“I heard it over the phone from Eugenie who heard it from her mother.”

“Huh. Easy to forget we’re classmates, isn’t it?”

Franz’s response held little obvious relevance to the topic at hand in their eyes, so Albert moved on, “It was heavenly! I can tell you all about it next time I see you.”

“Not over dinner?”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t want to impose on your—”

“Who said you’d be imposing?” When she caught Albert indicating Franz with his chin, her eyes narrowed with bewilderment.

“Anyway,” Albert hastened to move on, readdressing the friend he’d unintentionally excluded, “how’d the meeting go?”

“Nothing I didn’t expect.” Franz lifted an index finger. “One question, though: how does one hammer it into you that ‘a buccaneer with a simian companion’ isn’t a valid career choice?”

“Maybe not on this end of the continent.”

“If you can start by addressing the millennium we’re in I’ll grant you that.”

While Valentine was still busy putting two and two together, the car stopped before Aux Lyonnais and Albert rose from his seat to allow Valentine to pass, Franz having already hopped out. “Well, I’ll be seeing you,” he punctuated their ride, managing a smile that vanished as soon as it appeared when Albert grew aware of a slim hand tugging on the cuff of his sleeve.

“Stick around,” insisted Valentine, “I’m dying to hear about how you found Casablanca.” She nodded at her fiancée, who stood with his hands in his pockets and his head angled away from the two, though Albert couldn’t help but chuckle at how ill-concealed Franz’s smile was.

He hopped off, nudging his friend with his elbow. “Say, I never thanked you for tonight, come to think of it.”

“Don’t.”

“Really, how can I return the favor?” Franz jerked to a stop as Albert’s grip on his forearm tugged him back.

“You really want to?” While Albert responded by nodding vehemently, Franz stared down at the hand wrapped around his wrist and a dry smirk curled his lips.“Get better parents.”


End file.
